All the guests, snow and celebrations are over and gone, and I feel depleted of energy. I sit and stare at the screen and can't detect any thoughts whirring, or even stirring. Perhaps this is what authors mean when they say their muse has vanished? I don't know, but I hope the feeling doesn't last. I'm not used to this and it feels weird.
It is wet and windy - the usual depressing English weather in January, but we'll shall go and see if we can get a new part for our old washing machine. I've had it about seventeen years, possibly longer, and there's nothing wrong with it except - and it is a big exception - the dial selector switch is now almost dysfunctional. The little plastic cogs inside have all broken off, so it doesn't click round to the desired wash programme at all well. We've replaced this particular part twice already, but we now wonder if the part will still be available. The fresh air should waken me up, if nothing else. Then when I get back, maybe I'll get down to some writing.